


Un Ange Passe

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Gen, Series: I've Been Dreaming of a Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 10:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10188434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: “Could you teach me how to pray?” Kurt spends time with Jane at her son’s sickbed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Going along with my lil headcanon that Kurt’s a lapsed Catholic (I mean he is just the *type*, isn’t he?), I figured Jane would eventually turn to him and his forsaken religion for succor when things get really bad with Anthony again. So here’s my take on that eventuality.
> 
> For those on ao3, I know I haven’t posted anything from this universe on here before. It’s too involved to explain quickly in an author’s note, unfortunately, but if you’re interested, you can find lots of background and many stories from this canon on my FFN page or my tumblr.
> 
> Enjoy!

Kurt hates Route 9. Truth be told, he has never had a fondness for it—especially not the stretch that becomes the Henry Hudson Parkway—but now he outright _hates_ it. He hates how thin the lanes are, he hates how many exits there are, he hates that no matter how fast traffic moves while he is on the road, it is never fast enough. It doesn’t seem to matter what time he leaves work: the drive uptown from Federal Plaza is always horrific.

But his final destination is worse.

Six years ago, he thought he’d said goodbye to the pediatric arm of New York-Presbyterian forever, and yet here he is, back again. And again. And again. Every Wednesday and Friday, he takes off work as early as he can manage (which is never very early), gets in his car, and attempts to beat the rush hour traffic heading towards Upper Manhattan. Sometimes he succeeds. Other times, not so much.

But Jane always seems grateful to see him. 

No matter how early he is, or how late, or for how short or long a time he can stay, her face always immediately softens at the sight of him poking his head through her son’s hospital room door. He offers her a smile in return every time—it comes as second nature whenever he sees her face, even after all these years—but it never last long once his eyes drift to her son.

 _He’s too small for that bed_. 

Kurt thinks it every time he arrives to stand his few hours’ vigil beside her child’s sickbed. It doesn’t matter that Anthony has never been regular-sized; Kurt has never gotten used to how small Jane’s son is. Born two months early, he has always been at a disadvantage when it comes to physical size—and many other things, too.

It’s why the pneumonia is wreaking such havoc, Kurt knows. The boy’s internal systems aren’t developed enough to handle its onslaught the way most children’s are. For most children, a cold is a cold. It doesn’t often get worse. But for Anthony—

Kurt doesn’t want to call it a death sentence. But it’s the first thing that comes to mind when he looks at that little boy, who is so pale and small and always in pain. _He’s dying_.

Kurt hasn’t talked to Jane about the diagnosis recently; he figures no news from her either means nothing’s changed, or things have gotten worse and she can’t bring herself to tell him yet. He truly hopes that it’s the former. He doesn’t know what they’ll do—any of them—if it’s the latter.

So as he steps into the hospital room this Wednesday, he tries for the only subject he knows is safe.

“How are the boys?” he asks quietly, doing his best to force Jane’s thoughts away from her dying child, and onto the one part of her family life he knows is comparatively untroubled: her twins. Matthew and Jacob.

“Good,” she answers at once. She doesn’t take her eyes off Anthony. “Sarah called earlier today; she said she and Ed have their hands full babysitting. But at least it means Sawyer finally learned how to change a diaper.”

Kurt laughs softly, picturing it. For years, his nephew refused to change any of his little brother’s diapers, and Kurt is glad his often-spoiled nephew has finally been made to face the music, however belated. He just wishes it hadn’t happened under such poor circumstances.

Coming up to Jane’s side, Kurt carefully takes a seat in the vacant chair her husband usually occupies. He thinks briefly of asking after Oscar’s whereabouts, but decides against it. Likely he’s still stuck at work, and there’s no point in rubbing salt in that particular wound just to make small talk.

“So how’s he doing?” Kurt asks quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the boy sleeping a few feet away. “Is his fever still—“

“Still there,” Jane finishes for him. “Hasn’t wavered even a degree. Not in—“ She checks her watch. “Not in ten hours.”

Kurt closes his eyes, swallowing the sigh inside him. His exasperation, his pity, mean nothing in the face of her pain, and so he reins them in and does his best to think of something uplifting to tell her before he opens his eyes again. But when he turns to speak to her, all the words leave him.

She is crying again.

They are thin, slippery tears this time—gone in a second, but replenished just as fast. They don’t pause on her cheeks, or cling to her eyelashes. They seem in a hurry to abandon her, creating twin streams that spill down her cheeks constantly, discoloring her jeans as they drop below.

He has seen her cry before—so many times, he has seen her cry—but somehow this time is worse than all the others he can remember. It is horrible to watch her cry without making a sound, without blinking an eye, as if she has gotten so used to grieving now that she hardly notices when she does it publicly.

When she does become aware that he’s watching her, she buries her face in her hands, hiding herself.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers between sobs, wiping quickly at her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“It’s okay,” Kurt interrupts softly, reaching out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, c’mon, Jane, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I know nothing’s changed, but that doesn’t mean—“

“It means exactly what everyone thinks it means!” she cries out. “It means nothing’s changed; it means he isn’t getting better; it means he’s going to—“

_Die._

Kurt braces himself to hear her speak the world aloud for the first time, but even now, she can’t do it. Instead, she crumples into herself, shoulders hunched as she attempts to do her best to beat back the sobs fighting for control.

“I don’t know what we’ll do without him,” she whimpers, wrapping her arms tight around herself. “I don’t know how Oscar and I will ever look at each other again. And the boys… Oh, God, they’ll just forget him. They’re only a year old; they won’t remember him once they’re grown. They’ll think he was a dream. They’ll think—“ Her voice cracks so sharply Kurt flinches as if hit. “They’ll think they made him up. Like he was their imaginary friend.”

“You don’t know that,” Kurt counters, though it sickens him just how easily he can picture exactly the future she’s describing. “And besides,” he adds quickly, forcing the macabre away, “he isn’t gone yet. Ant’s still here, he’s right here in front of you—“

“But for how long?” she whispers. She sucks in a painful breath, cupping a hand over her mouth as if to hold in the traitorous words. They escape anyway. “How much longer do I have with him?”

Kurt opens his mouth, casting his mind about for an answer, but there are none to be had. Jane doesn’t seem to notice his effort, or lack thereof. The tears, which she had managed to wrangle to a stop a few moments before, have begun flowing again. 

“Why couldn’t he have just stayed?” she begs hopelessly, not even trying to stem the tears now. “Why couldn’t he have stayed in me for a few months more? Why couldn’t I—God, why couldn’t I have kept him safe? _Why_?”

Kurt swallows hard, tightening his hold on Jane’s shoulder as he looks around desperately for the only person remotely qualified to talk to her about these things. But Oscar is nowhere to be seen to offer his input.

“What am I supposed to do?” Jane asks in a shaking whisper. “I can’t protect him anymore. But I can’t—I can’t just sit here and do nothing anymore, either, I _can’t_.” She turns to Kurt. “You have to tell me what to do. Please. Tell me what helps.”

She doesn’t say the rest— _You’ve been here before; you’ve survived the death of a child before_ —but the rationale hangs in the air between them. It haunts them, just like Anthony’s too-little body sleeping in the bed beside them haunts them. He already feels like a ghost.

“Well, it‘s… You know, coping’s different for every person,” Kurt begins carefully, not yet knowing what road he’s going down. But he can’t stay silent, not with Jane watching him, hoping, hanging onto every word as if each might be her salvation. So he tries to come up with something useful. “I can’t tell you what to do, Jane, but maybe… Maybe I could tell you what I’ve done in the past. See if that helps you.”

He can’t call it hope, the look in Jane’s eyes. They are past hope; they left hope behind days ago. But there is some curiosity there, and Kurt will leap at any chance he’s given to distract her from her grief. Maybe he’ll even be able to do some good for her along the way. 

“What’ve you done in the past?” she whispers. “What’s helped you?”

He swallows hard. As much as he wants to help her, he has never talked to anyone about this. He has never wanted anyone to know. But Jane…

Jane is Jane. They know more about each other than any person has any right to know about another. What is one more secret willingly given?

“Sometimes,” he begins quietly, “when I’m feeling hopeless, scared, powerless…” He draws in a heavy breath. Forces it out. “Sometimes I pray,” he confesses.

She blinks in surprise, not having expected this. “Pray?”

He nods without looking at her. “Yeah, pray. I don’t do it often. Just when… Only when things get really bad.”

She doesn’t ask for examples. She knows them all.

Instead she asks, “How?”

“How?” He glances over at her. “Do you mean—How do I pray?”

She nods, solemn as ever in the face of something unknown: waiting and wanting to learn. _To learn?_ He can’t teach her. This isn’t something to be taught, at least not by someone like him, someone who hasn’t been to church regularly since he lived under his father’s roof over twenty-five years ago. She can’t learn from _him_.

“Sarah’s the person you should ask about this stuff,” he excuses. “She’s actually practicing; she goes to church every week—“

“I'm not asking Sarah,” Jane interrupts. “I’m asking you.”

For a moment, she holds his eyes with hers—commanding attention as completely and fiercely in a hospital room as she used to out in the field—and then she cracks. Her chin begins shaking, her eyes drop, and he watches as she curls her hands into fists, trying to keep herself together.

“Please,” she begs. “Can’t you just teach me whatever you remember? Anything has to help. Anything. _Please_.”

There is no way to say no, and so he gives in.

He starts with the simple things: the sign of the cross, the traditional opening of the prayer, the closing of it. He tells her to do the opposite of what he does: don’t treat praying like a hostage negotiation; don’t make promises you might not be able to keep; don’t risk your sanity on one hopeless plea. Just unburden yourself of your fears and your hopes and try to find comfort in the belief that someone out there is listening, and will, with luck, take pity on your suffering.

“Isn’t it blasphemy if I pray without true belief?”

She breaks the silence of their respective mental prayers to ask, and Kurt can’t help but catch her eye with a small smile.

“If it is,” he replies, “then I imagine I’ve been blaspheming all my life. But no,” he adds seriously, knowing this worry of hers is sincere. “You aren’t blaspheming. People find faith in all sorts of circumstances. Maybe… Who knows, maybe this is yours.”

“Or maybe I’m just at the end of my rope and this is all I’ve got left.”

Kurt shrugs. “Who says it can’t be both? Trying times like these are how most people find their faith. There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s natural.”

She’s quiet for a time, digesting his words. He watches as her eyes float back to her son, and then his do the same. Kurt focuses his thoughts on that little boy in his too-big bed until Jane clears her throat and redirects his attention.

“Can I tell you something?” she whispers. “It’s sort of a… a secret?”

He glances over at her, intrigued, but she doesn’t meet his eye. After a moment of waiting for her to explain to no avail, he nods. “Sure, Jane. You can tell me anything.”

“Oscar used to pray,” she confesses, not taking her eyes off her son. “Back when Ant was in the hospital the first time. He never did it while I was around to overhear—I think he was scared, or maybe ashamed—but I heard him sometimes anyway. When he was holding Anthony by my bed and he thought I was asleep… I heard him. I heard him pray that his family would survive. I heard him beg. I heard…” She swipes at her eyes, choking out the rest: “I heard him make such awful bargains for our safety.”

Kurt closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to stretch his imagination far at all to imagine whose life Oscar offered in exchange for his wife and son’s wellbeing.

“You never talked to him about it?” he asks her softly.

Jane shakes her head, her eyes intent on her son. Kurt wonders if she’s focusing on that brown hair of his, the exact same shade of his father’s. He wonders if she’s still grateful for the resemblance or not.

“We didn’t ever discuss it,” Jane answers softly. “After Anthony was well enough to come home, we never talked much about the hospital stay. I think… I think we were both scared that if we discussed it amongst ourselves, we might start rejoicing that it was over—and what if that jinxed things? What if we had a happy two weeks and then some other defect of Anthony’s made itself known? What if…” She sniffs. “What if we got complacent in our happiness, so complacent that something just _had_ to come along and remind us that people like us are not meant to be happy?”

“That isn’t true,” Kurt corrects firmly. “You know that’s not true. You deserve to be happy. Oscar, too. Your whole family.”

She turns to him only to refute him with a sad shake of her head. “We’ve done a lot of bad things, Kurt. A lot of very bad things.”

“And you’ve done a lot of good things, too, Jane. A hell of a lot. And I, for one, think all that good has more than made up for whatever bad you think you’re still guilty for. And before you disagree,” he adds, “you should remember I’m really in the best place to judge things, given that I sat through both your and Oscar’s interrogations. I know what the score is, and trust me, you aren’t still being held accountable.”

Jane shakes her head weakly again, but doesn’t press the point further, and Kurt is grateful for this brief lapse in her usual stubbornness. He doesn’t have the heart to argue heatedly with her right now.

“I feel like I should be angry at him for hiding his prayers from me,” Jane whispers after a moment, thinking back to her husband once more. “I feel like I should resent him for shutting me out of something that could’ve helped us both had we practiced together, prayed together. Maybe we would’ve even tried to go to church together, if I knew. And maybe that would’ve helped. But…” She lets out a tired, defeated sigh. “On the other hand, what’s the point of being resentful? Clearly he hid it from me for a reason, and considering all he’s been through, I guess I can’t really blame him for losing his faith.”

“I can’t exactly blame him, either,” Kurt agrees softly. He frowns a second later, thinking better of it. “Though to be honest…”

“What?” Jane prompts when he trails off.

Kurt scratches at the back of his neck, glancing away. “Well, to be honest, when really _considering_ all he’s been through—finding you again, having a family, having a life together—I would think all that would be a surefire reason for him to _keep_ his faith, not lose it.”

“Oh. Well that’s—" Jane surprises even herself by smiling. “That’s really sweet of you, Kurt.”

He shrugs, offering her an embarrassed smile of his own. “It’s just what I think.”

“You have very nice thoughts, then,” she compliments him softly, and he nods silently, never having been adept at taking compliments, not even ones from her.

She lets the silence cover them, and for a while, they watch Anthony together without speaking, without moving. They pray for him alone in their minds until Jane eventually breaks the silence and asks if he could please recite another prayer—any prayer—out loud.

He obliges her at once, both surprised and unsurprised at how quickly a few come to mind. No matter how many years he’s spent away from the church, it seems that early indoctrination made its mark. He has finished one prayer and is halfway through another when there’s a gentle knock on the door.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Both Jane and Kurt turn around at the sound of her husband’s voice.

Kurt can’t help but stare—he still hasn’t gotten used to the way Oscar looks these days, shorn as he is of his usual mane of hair. In the seven or so years Kurt has known him, he has never seen Oscar with anything less than an overly full head of hair, but now it is cut almost to the quick—far shorter than Kurt’s own hair. He doesn’t know exactly when Jane’s husband made the drastic cut, but he does know it happened sometime between the first and second week of Anthony’s prolonged hospital stay.

Even with the cut hair, though, Kurt thinks Oscar doesn’t look much different now than he did the night they’d met all those years ago in interrogation. The chains from his wrists are gone, but that same look of exhaustion he wore that first night Kurt met him is still on his face now. He’s even grown his stubble back, though Kurt thinks that’s more of a result of his child being in the hospital and his life being upended than any sort of conscious choice.

As Oscar steps into the room, Kurt immediately gets to his feet, offering one of only two chairs in the room to the only person besides Jane that actually deserves it. But Oscar shakes his head at the gesture, pulling the door shut behind him.

“You’re fine,” he says, holding out a hand to stop Kurt. “I don’t need to sit.”

“I should go, though,” Kurt excuses himself. “I should leave you all to—”

“I think we would both prefer it if you stayed, Kurt,” Oscar interrupts quietly. Kurt looks at him, and then at Jane, who readily nods in agreement.

“Please,” she whispers, looking up at him in that pleading way he had so hoped was in the past. “Surely three prayers are better than two, right?”

Kurt has no way to argue, and so he simply nods, and takes up his chair again. He watches as Oscar crosses the room to join them, but instead of coming to stand beside his wife, he goes to wait on the opposite side of his son’s bed. He stares down at the boy for a long moment before finally lifting his hand. Kurt starts to look away, expecting Oscar to be wiping his eyes, but he surprises Kurt by crossing himself instead, his lips mouthing the words Kurt knows well.

_In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit…_

Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt can see Jane watching her husband intently. Kurt does his best to keep his head forward and focus his thoughts on the boy in the hospital bed. Another man’s discarded faith is not his to judge, no matter how curious may be.

He starts the prayer once more, keeping his voice loud enough to be heard not only by Jane, but by her husband as well. Kurt stares down at the boy asleep in the bed, and he truly hopes this will be the last time he, or anyone else, has to pray over his prone body. Six-year-olds aren’t meant to be hooked up to IVs and heart monitors and oxygen tanks. They aren’t meant to suffer through doctors’ daily visits and nurses’ hourly check-ups and pricks and prods and whispered conversations about _chances_ and _time_ and _odds_ being held just beyond their hearing.

Six-year-olds aren’t meant to watch their parents cry.

They aren’t meant to have deathbeds.

Anthony should be home with his parents, home with his brothers. It is unfair that he is here—it is _unnatural_. He is only a child; he should not be made to fear death so early on in his life. It makes Kurt furious to think about—this child already carries the physical scars of his premature birth with him, and will all his life, and yet now he has more. Now he has emotional scars. Now he will be as traumatized by his own health as his parents are. It isn’t fair, it isn’t goddamn fair, and it makes Kurt seethe to the point of wanting to break something.

As he recites another prayer from memory, he wonders how Jane and Oscar stay so calm. Sad, heartbroken, tearful—but calm. Is it merely grief dulling their senses, squashing the fire of their fury, or are they angry, too, beneath the tears and the sleeplessness? When they allow themselves to rage, is it at the world or at each other?

Looking at them stationed, unspeaking, on opposite sides of the room, Kurt thinks he has his answer. He doesn’t want to know it, but he has it nonetheless.

He shuts his eyes again, pushing that all away as he focuses more fully on the prayer now, shifting from an old church standby to something more personal, more unique. He hasn’t thought of this prayer in a long time, and it takes some discipline to recite it without succumbing to grief himself.

But he manages.

He takes it slow, whispering words about the strength of children, the strength of family, and the power of the love he knows these three—and their friends and family—all share for one another. That love cannot be lessened by illness or pain or death, he promises. And even if death comes, that shared love will still remain behind as a bond between them, and a beacon for others. It will not vanish simply because its recipient has left the Earth; instead, it will endure as a reminder that while the world can be unspeakably cruel, it can also be unspeakably tender. Should the worst happen, he will take comfort as he knows they will in the happy memories of their boy. And when deprived of his person, Kurt knows they will cherish those memories as lovingly as they once cherished his self.

Kurt does not open his eyes when he hears the legs of Jane’s chair scrape against the floor. He does not stop reciting the prayer as she brushes past him in her rush to get away. If she is running out of the room because of what he is saying, he will not chase after her, but nor will he stop the prayer short. It needs to be finished, and so he focuses until it is done, until the _Amen_ is said, and then he opens his eyes to face the consequences.

The first thing he notices is that Jane hasn’t fled the room. She has merely crossed it: to stand at her husband’s side, to hold him, to whisper words Kurt can barely hear as he cries into her shoulder.

 _I should’ve known better_ , Kurt thinks guiltily, dropping his eyes from the couple to their son. He spent weeks with Oscar in the NICU while Ant had been separated from his family and housed in his impenetrable incubator. During those interminable weeks, Kurt saw Jane’s husband cry more times over his baby boy than Kurt ever likes to remember, and yet he chastises himself now for having forgotten. He should have remembered. He should have said a more mundane prayer. He should have thought about how dear this situation was, how much Jane and Oscar have suffered already, and he should not have gotten so personal.

But it’s too late now.

As recompense, Kurt offers his silent apologies up to God, for he knows it would be cruel to make Jane and Oscar listen to them. It is a minute or two before they break apart.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Oscar says, sucking in a sharp breath and rubbing the back of his hands roughly against his face. “I’m sorry, I just—" He shakes his head jerkily, not able to say any more, and for a moment, he sinks back into his wife’s embrace.

When he surfaces, he is standing taller, and though his eyes are red around the edges, his face is clear. He catches Kurt’s eye when Kurt risks looking over at him.

“That was a beautiful prayer,” Oscar manages, his throat hoarse from tears. “Beautiful.”

Kurt nods, but doesn’t offer anything more. Oscar watches him, and after a moment, he nods back, as if he understands some secret between them.

Kurt wouldn’t be surprised if Oscar did. He had changed a few of the words in his rendition, not to mention switched the pronouns, but the revised prayer was unmistakable if you knew the original: Taylor Shaw’s mother had written it for her dead or dying daughter nearly thirty-five years ago, after the authorities had given up the search. It has been repeated each and every year at Taylor’s memorial service since, and Kurt had attended enough of those to know it by heart, even now, years after that sad tradition had finally, awfully, ceased.

“Did you make that prayer up?” Jane wonders softly, breaking the silence.

Kurt can feel Oscar watching him closely, worrying over what he will say, but Kurt focuses on Jane instead. He hopes the prayer will bring her all the luck Emma Shaw never had.

“Yeah,” he lies gently. “I made it up.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice nearly quaking with reverence. “Kurt, thank you.”

He nods to her heartfelt praise, and she offers him what small smile of gratitude she can manage before she reaches up to hug her husband again. She knows he doesn’t take well to compliments, is embarrassed by them, and so she doesn’t draw it out.

And instead of looking away as before, Kurt studies the couple as they embrace this time. He is silently relieved to see how close they hold each other, how fiercely they latch onto one another. Perhaps the rough moments aren’t as rough as they seem from the outside. These two have been through worse before, after all, and they have survived. Kurt is sure they will make it through this too.

He just hopes their son will still be with them when they do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you have thoughts, I would love to hear them in a review. :)


End file.
